


Dean Fucking Winchester

by AlysstheHatter1999



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 19:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14267790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlysstheHatter1999/pseuds/AlysstheHatter1999
Summary: Dean as bad-ass as he could have been, with all of his scars and many of his demons.





	Dean Fucking Winchester

Dean looked into the mirror and sighed, running a hand through his hair. He could remember the good ol' days, when it was a different color just about every month, by shades or by color wheel, depending on his mood and access to John's wallet when John was drunk. A much younger Sam actually learned the colors off of Dean's hair, which made the tannings his hide got every time he dyed his hair a different color _partially _worth it.__  


Sammy had loved it when his hair was blue, and Dean aimed to please, so whenever John was in town, his hair was blue. It was like clockwork.  


Every few months, when the dye was starting to run out and the blond roots were beginning to show, Dean would take some of the money meant for food, go to the local bar and hustle enough pool to get more food and more hair dye, then go home after having taken his beatings from the disgruntled pool-players and stash the money. The next day, Dean would take Sammy shopping, and Sammy would pick out the color Dean would use on top of his natural blonde after they went grocery shopping. It worked out well for Dean and Sammy, because Sammy's older brother had hair in his favorite color, and Dean got the pleasure of keeping up his appearances.  


Occasionally, when Dean found that his night's winnings were more than enough for a few weeks of food, Dean would stash the money, and then once John left for another hunt, Dean would go and get a new piercing, until his ears and face would have probably been ripped off if he stood too close to a refridgerator magnet. They had always only just healed and Sammy had just gotten settled into his new school by the time John strolled back into town.  


Dean fiddled with his ear, feeling the bumps in the cartilage where a few of the piercings had either healed up, been ripped out by monsters, or been ripped out by John when Dean couldn't move out of the way of his drunken hand fast enough.  


There were a few that he had managed to keep, and some of them were his pride and joy. His tongue piercing had stayed, and he reminiscently rolled the ball around while he fiddled with an ear cuff. In the sweep of the early 2000's, Dean had begun the process of gages, but had never widened them to extreme lengths, so the small circles in his ears made of cork looked almost natural. Dean examined his neck tattoo next, one of a hand holding a rose down below his chin, and a different hand rising from hell-fire to grasp fruitlessly at the rose. Vines and cobwebs and Fleurs de lis twined around the rest of his neck, in one of his bigger pieces and one that had hurt _only a little bit less_ than _torture_ because there was a desire to be there and no emotional trauma. He'd impressed the artist, who had never seen anyone sit so still through a neck tattoo. It'd taken three, ten-hour days, and Dean had payed the lady well for her services. He'd been... oh, twenty-five, twenty-six at the time, somewhere in there. It was before Dad had gone missing, and he'd been laid low for a few days until he could swallow anything more than water without pain. But the tattoo was fucking beautiful, and that was what mattered. Dean's whole life was pain, it was at least worth it if it meant he could have some beauty.  


A few more meaningless tattoos littered his skin, such as pizza with an eye that he'd thought was _awesome_ one night after having smoked way too much pot and one of his "friends" had brought out a tattoo gun. He also had a couple of flowers for his mother on one arm, a set of tattered sparrow wings for John on his opposite arm (for no other reason than Dean was a sappy bitch when cross-faded), Sammy's favorite book growing up, "Oh, the Places You'll Go!" done in beautiful technicolor on his bicep, various helpful sigils for enhanced healing and the like were artfully littered down his right leg and connected by wires and gears, the anti-possession sigil on his chest, of course, and so many more. There was a tattoo that he personally liked a lot over his pec of a small house somewhere out in the wilderness with a white picket fence around it and light in the windows in the night. It looked warm, and inviting, like a home, and in the stars above it you could find Sirius and Orion, two of Sammy's favorite constellations for no other reason than they were easy to find. On long nights with too much booze and too many regrets, Dean would stare at that white picket fence and dream, but in the harsh light of day that would change. Of course, now a-days, after having had that white picket fence for a while, Dean didn't really dream of it anymore.  


Dean dreamed, occasionally, of Ben, of having a family, but it was deep in his sleep, and he never remembered the next morning. The things he did remember dreaming were far more extraordinary to the average Dick and Jane. Dreams of being raised from Hell, twice. Dreams of the hand-print that marred the cogs and gears on his shoulder from when he'd thought himself a machine that was only good for killing monsters. Dreams of the angel that had saved him and killed him time and time again without ever actually doing anything.  


These dreams would occasionally be remembered in glimpses, and Dean would smile and rub the shoulder that was basically branded with his wedding ring. He'd smile, and he'd watch his black and gray and colorful arms moving in time with his thoughts, wondering how the hell he'd managed to wake up still on Earth.  


Dean still managed to find the time to get more tattoos now a-days, and he'd care for them as carefully as ever, careful to wrap them before a hunt, careful to not hurt them as he sliced into monsters or battled demons or slayed creatures of the underworld and overworld as necessary.  


Dean, despite the years, was still badass. He had muscular definition, though some of it was giving way to pudge now that his metabolism was shit and Gabriel was there to cook for them all. He still sparred with Cas and Sam daily, still ate burger after burger and grinned as Sam picked at his salads; he was still himself.  


Dean figured that, ten, twenty years down the line, he'd still be awesome, maybe have a few more tattoos, maybe have a ring on his finger instead of a hand branded into his shoulder, but he'd still be awesome, because he is Dean Fucking Winchester.


End file.
